


Strung up

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Blood, Bondage, Human Castiel, Lucifer Possessing Sam Winchester, M/M, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the dirt and dust and drab brown of this sad forgotten space, the person who’s taken him appears in pristine white, like a shining beacon, a spot of purity among the wreckage. Oh, he’s anything but, and Castiel laughs a broken hacking cough of a laugh. Sam. Well. It’s not really Sam anymore. He’s wearing Sam’s face, hazel eyes that used to be warm and concerned, that dimpled smile that used to be genuine. It’s a distorted thing, tilted slightly to the left, it’s Sam’s face but not Sam. The gestures are all wrong, the voice is wrong, it moves, it feels, it breathes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strung up

Raids are always dangerous. It’s an accepted fact that with the Croatoan infected masses running rampant out there in the world at large, that when a raiding party goes out for supplies or intel, there’s a high chance that not all of them will come back. Castiel has had to shoot more than a few people who came limping back trying to hide their wounds from being attacked.

The thing that he does not expect, after finding himself isolated in the middle of a raid and rushed by a hoard, is that he would wake up after blacking out. Wake up still alive. And as far as he can tell, not infected. Although his continued existence is a welcome surprise, the fact that he’s strung up to the ceiling with thick ropes around his wrists is not so welcome.

His wrists are sore and throb dully, and when he tries to twist them he feels dried blood crack and peel where it chafes against the rope, the wet slide of blood from newly opened wounds trailing down his forearm. His lips are chapped and his throat is hoarse. His legs are aching from trying to stand on tip toes. When his vision clears, Castiel notes that he is in what looks to be an abandoned, collapsing building. It’s just run of the mill end of the world decor. Rubble strewn floor, busted out windows, grime covered shelves along the wall and empty stretches of space where support beams are tagged with graffiti.

The worst part of it though, is that he feels like his body is shriveling up and eating itself. Itching crawl under his skin like bugs, dead static space between his ears when he can’t make his brain work, clawing hunger in his belly that’s not wanting for food. He’s sober.

He hears someone approach before he sees them, slow steady steps crunching the detritus under foot. Castiel attempts to swivel in hid bonds but an ankle gives out and he hangs limply, shoulder sockets telling his brain to cease and desist the abuse with sharp stabs of needling pain.

In all the dirt and dust and drab brown of this sad forgotten space, the person who’s taken him appears in pristine white, like a shining beacon, a spot of purity among the wreckage. Oh, he’s anything but, and Castiel laughs a broken hacking cough of a laugh. Sam. Well. It’s not really Sam anymore. He’s wearing Sam’s face, hazel eyes that used to be warm and concerned, that dimpled smile that used to be genuine. It’s a distorted thing, tilted slightly to the left, it’s Sam’s face but not Sam. The gestures are all wrong, the voice is wrong, it moves, it feels, it breathes wrong.

Sam’s not there anymore. It’s Castiel’s brother Lucifer. Well, Castiel is not so sure if the outcast archangel would count him as a brother anymore, after all, Castiel is a human now. What use could he be but entertainment.

Lucifer’s voice is poisoned honey, it’s smooth and sweet and it’s only lies.

"Castiel, brother, I am so happy to have found you."

He shakes his head feebly, “I’m no use to you Lucifer, not any more, we don’t need these pretenses.”

Lucifer cocks his head, a sympathetic smile twists his face, as he steps closer. Curling his fingers around Castiel’s jaw, Lucifer pulls his head up.

"Look at you. You can’t even see my true face any more, can you? There’s nothing behind your eyes, nothing, nothing there but human flesh and bone. You’re filthy."

Castiel tries to wrench his face away but the strong fingers holding him tighten.

"No, I can’t see you. And I’m glad."

"For what?"

"Because it hurt to see what a twisted thing you’d become."

Lucifer laughed, head tipped back and mouth open, releasing Castiel.

"Oh brother, but that is what our Father made out of me."

Sam’s broad hands opened the white suit jacket, reaching inside to pull out a small silver knife. With a flick, the flimsy blue shirt Castiel had been wearing was on the floor.

"Torture? Really, Lucifer, you’re not going to get anything out of me."

"I don’t intend to."

He tutted, as though scolding a stupid a child, and pressed the blade into Castiel’s skin.

"Do you know what you are Castiel?"

Castiel jerked, he had no where to go but he couldn’t help pulling away from the sharp pain.

"You’re Dean’s weakness. Sam used to be, still is in a way, but I think Dean’s given up on having him back."

The blade curved over the expanses of his chest and down the soft give of his stomach, digging, digging, and everything was hot with the sting of split skin, slicked with blood.

"You however. I don’t think he’s quite given up on you. He is very stubborn."

Castiel tried to look down and watch but he couldn’t see what symbols Lucifer was carving into his chest. There was too much red, splashing over the white of his suit and staining it.

"You’re bait."

Head swimming with the gut sour flush of adrenaline, Castiel tipped his head back and stared at his wrists, the rope digging into flesh. There were vines creeping along the ceiling, beautiful green things, life in this soiled place.

"I’m going to mark you and string you up like a corpse at the gates." 

There was a high pitched whining whimper echoing in the empty space and it took Castiel a moment to realize it was him. He shook and trembled like the only leaf left hanging in an autumn empty tree.

"You’re wrong. He hasn’t cared in a long time. Don’t waste your effort."

"Maybe he’ll look for you. Maybe he won’t. But I think, it’ll be fun either way."

There’s a cold slide of metal down his legs and Castiel shivered when his jeans fell away. He’s dizzy when he looks down and the dust of the floor is disturbed by the patters of his blood. Lucifer isn’t standing in front of him anymore, but then everything gives and he falls to his knees. The rubble, splinters, broken glass that litter the floor dig into his knees and shins. He can’t quite fall forward, sagging, arms held above him still. There are hands on his chest, sliding in the blood, fingers on his skin, digging into the wounds.

"I’m going to tear you to pieces, brother, and throw the scraps back to Dean."

Sam’s breath is on his neck - Lucifer’s breath, does he have breath in this borrowed vessel what counts as his. Castiel wonders if Sam is still in there, still watching, if he can see. If he’s given up too. Broad hands lift his hips, legs pushed apart, teeth in the meat of his shoulder.

Castiel feels like a puppet on strings, too weak, too human, too broken. He can’t even break a rope or heal a cut. He can’t stop his brother when Lucifer pushes into him, a bare arm wrapped around his chest, fingers splayed along his ribs, holding him, pulling him back but they slip slide together in all the blood.

He thinks it’s blood on his face when he feels wetness on his cheeks, but it’s tears when he sobs and pleads. He can’t tell where it hurts the most, because everything hurts in a constant steady thrum. Though he’s been tortured before, and there are new scars across his human body that will never fade, he’s never felt this. This violation, this defilement, at the hands of his fallen brother. For what purpose, is this a game, to use him like a pawn. He’s just a human, he cut his strings long ago, tore his wings off, left the board. 

The world keeps teaching him newer, deeper, ways to hurt. He might have thought at a point that as a human he would feel things less because his senses were so much more limited. Yet he feels everything so much more for he is weak. 

Babbling incoherently he can’t even string words together to beg, he wouldn’t want to, but he’s split open and bleeding out. He doesn’t know if Lucifer is going to string him up as a corpse literally, if he’s going to leave anything for Dean to piece together. Lucifer is cruel but he is a calculated madness that is always bent to a purpose. The question of whether Dean would even deem him worth saving, now that, he can’t even think about now because it hurts almost more than what Lucifer is doing to him. 

When the world starts to blur at the edges and he’s too weak to clutch at the ropes digging in to his wrists, Lucifer still pressed flush to him ripping his wounds wider and crooning filth in his ear, Castiel welcomes the silent blackness of unconsciousness.


End file.
